The Trade (Coastal Rivals Book 1)

Fall Term

If I’m forced to spend another thirty seconds staring at this blank Word document, I might be tempted to bang my head against my desk. Repeatedly. I’m so sick of pretending like I’m cut out for all of this—my classes, my scholarship, my futile attempts at finishing this godforsaken essay.

I don’t know how much longer I can play the dutiful college student, a D1 athlete who actually has his shit together outside of the locker room. The harsh reality? I’m not that guy, and I never will be.

But for now, this assignment will have to wait. There are only twenty minutes left on the clock before I’m due on the practice field, and I need to switch gears.

I don’t have room to think about Greek mythology right now. Not when I’m meant to be throwing myself into our grueling two-hour practice schedule. And to top it all off, I’m still nursing a hamstring that’s on the brink of tearing.

I tweaked it a few weeks back, and I don’t want Coach to find out about it, especially considering my lackluster grades as of late. Not only would he lay into me about everything, but he could deny me the one thing I truly want—the singular ambition I’ve set my sights on for the past two years.

I plan to declare early for the draft.

It’s becoming increasingly clear that I can’t juggle being a college student and a potential pro athlete at the same time. Barely managing a C-plus average these past two years, hitting just the minimum grade point to hold on to my place on the team and, consequently, my full-ride scholarship.

It may sound like a breeze, but it’s truly been a teeth-gritting struggle, and I’m more than aware that it’s not a good look for anyone. I’m a negligent jock, a careless athlete, a fucking waste of potential.

I’ve heard it all before.

But damn it, I do try. Against all odds, I do. My learning disabilities might throw more hurdles in my way, but ultimately, others’ opinions of me don’t amount to shit. Because sooner rather than later, I’ll be rubbing shoulders with the pros.

That is, provided I can get Coach Rodriguez on board.

By the time I’ve gritted my way through another tormenting round of RB drills and finished off with forty-yard sprints, I’m barely concealing my limp. I pull off my helmet, freeing my hair, now slick with sweat, as I work to shake off the exertion.

“Coach, can I have a minute?”

I struggle to maintain a normal gait as I jog up beside him. It may have been tense before, but now my hamstring’s fucking killing me, cramping and throbbing with every step I take.

Coach Rodriguez pauses, a contrite expression on his face. “Don’t think I didn’t notice your leg out there, West.”

“Just feeling tight.” The lie carelessly slips from my lips as I tug at my clinging jersey, pulling it away from my neck. “I swear.”

He gives me a wary look, eyes scanning my face before he speaks again. “Okay, you better foam roll and stretch tonight. I want you to take it easy.”

“Yeah, of course. I’m planning on it.”

“Did you need something else?”

“I was hoping we could set up a meeting to talk about the draft.”

“No,” he answers immediately.

“No?”

“We don’t need to set up a meeting, son.” He places one firm hand on my shoulder. “I already know my answer. It’s gonna be a no from me.”

His harsh words knock the wind right out of me. Two and half seasons on the field—exhausting myself physically, struggling academically, and always playing by the goddamn books—and yet this is my coach’s response.

“We can’t even discuss this?”

“No, we can’t,” he says. “Give me another good year, get those grades up, and graduate with your scholarship. You can declare once you’ve secured your degree. Just like pretty much every other senior on the team.”

“Sir—”

“That’s my recommendation. Take it or leave it, but just know you won’t have the support of your coach if you decide to go against this.” His gaze is somber but steadfast. “Understood?”

I clench my jaw, holding back the sudden urge to flash him both middle fingers and yell out a big Fuck You.

“Understood.” I give him a tight half-smile, turning on my heel to catch up with my teammate. I don’t know what I expected, but it sure as hell wasn’t that. He didn’t even give me the slightest shred of a chance.

“Cam!” I call, hands cupped around my jaw as I nod toward the bleachers.

Camden Scott is one big motherfucker. He’s a linebacker for the team. Huge, intimidating, and one of my best friends. The man absolutely loves playing the game, but he has no plans to go pro. He’d rather study biomedical engineering for the rest of his life.

According to Cam, only about five percent of physical science jobs are held by Black men. And my best friend since freshman year, well, he’s determined to contribute to the stat. In his words, he plans to become a goddamn engineer, a biomedical pioneer, and a PhD candidate in the next few years. All of the above, if he can swing it.

“Hey, man,” he shouts back, shoving his helmet inside a Dayton U duffel. “Are you heading to the showers?”

“Nah, I’m just gonna shower back at the house.”

“Then let’s get the hell out of here.” He swings himself over the divider, coming up beside me to exit the field.

We slowly make our way past the endless rows of bleachers, eventually crossing in front of the Intramural Training Building.

“So, what were you talking to Rodriguez about?” he finally asks, effectively breaking my brooding silence.

“He doesn’t want me declaring early.”

“Fuck, man. I’m sorry.”

“It’s just bullshit. He wouldn’t even—”

“West! Hey!” I’m cut off by the sound of a familiar voice, tiny feet pattering on the pavement as she runs to catch up with us. I manage to stifle a groan, running my fingers through my sweat-damp hair before I turn to greet her.

“Cass,” I grind out, forcing my lips to curve into a smile.

My eyes flicker across her uniform. Tight cheer skirt. Long tan legs. Tiny little waist. Yeah, Cassidy Viotto is hot as hell, but I’m really not in the mood for all this right now.

“Did you want to come over to my place tonight?” she asks, that fake sultry tone slipping into her high-pitched voice. She bats her thick lashes at me, biting down on those full lips of hers.

“It was a brutal practice, Cass.” I sigh, rubbing at the back of my neck. “I’m tired, gonna hit the hay early.”

She rolls her eyes, glancing quickly at Cam before leaning in close. She makes sure her lips graze my ear as she whispers, “I could do that thing with my tongue you like.”

Fuck if I can help it, but blood immediately rushes to places it shouldn’t. Maybe a night with Cassidy would be a good distraction from this bullshit with Coach, after all.

“Uh . . . I mean—”

Wait, no. Think with your upstairs brain, West. You want to be alone tonight, relaxing at home after a long steaming shower. Besides, she hooked up with your teammate less than a week ago. Not that I really give a shit, but it does kind of ruin the appeal.

“No, you know what? I said I’m tired, Cass.” I work to keep the irritation from my voice. “Maybe another time.”

“Well, if you’re tired . . .” She places her palm against my chest, stroking her slender fingers down my jersey. “We could just, like, talk or something.”

The fuck? I glance at Cam, shaking my head before pulling Cassidy to the side. She may be overly forward, bordering on stalkerish, but I’m not about to embarrass her in front of my teammate.

Once we’re a good few feet away, I open my mouth to ask, “What are you trying to do?”

“What do you mean?” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Why’d you bring me over here?”

“So we can have a private conversation. You want me to come over to talk? That’s not what this is, Cassidy.”

“Oh my God.” She blows out a heated breath, perching both hands on her hips. “You’re acting like I asked you on a date, West. I just said talk. Friends can talk.”

“They can. Little problem, we’re not friends.”

“Oh, come on.”

“No, seriously, Cass.” I shrug off her advances for the second time. “We hardly talked before you brought me home that first night.”

“Well, we could start now,” she insists, stomping her foot with a dramatic flair.

“I don’t think so. I’m not trying to confuse things.”

“Confuse things?” she shrieks. “We can’t even talk? Trust me, I’m not that desperate.” Her eyes narrow as she pushes a thick strand of hair behind her ear. “Besides, you talk to O’Connor all the time.”

And there it is. The fucking jealousy that always flares its ugly head. Sure, I occasionally talk to her cheer teammate Shannon O’Connor, the redheaded spitfire who’s been on my mind since freshman year.

“Right, and there’s the difference. I’m not fucking O’Connor.”

Her shoulders straighten, spine stiff. “Yeah, but you want to.”

Yeah, okay, well . . . she’s got me there. Shannon’s not only one of the hottest girls I’ve ever seen, but she’s also a goddamn sweetheart. I’d be lying if I outright denied the accusation.

“Don’t know what you want me to say to that.”

Yeah, sure. It’s an asshole comment to make to the girl you’ve been sleeping with, but I’m not gonna stand here and play games with her. Not right now, at least, when my head’s still reeling from that conversation with Coach.

“Wow, West.” She scoffs, and it grates on something soft inside my brain. “I thought you were different, but you’re just like all the rest of your asshole teammates.”

“Please, Cassidy, don’t act like you would’ve been interested in the first place if I wasn’t a fucking football player.”

“I guess that’s where I went wrong,” she shouts, no longer caring that we have an audience. “You’re all just a bunch of . . . slutty, little fuckboys, aren’t you?”

“Seriously?” I raise both brows. “Is that why you had Miller’s cock in your mouth last weekend?”

“What?” she asks, voice low and eyes wide.

“Yeah, think I didn’t know about that?”

“More like I thought you wouldn’t care.” She flicks her hair over her shoulders, that evil little gleam returning to her gaze. “We’re not together, remember?”

“Now you’re onto something.”

“Oh, fuck you, West.”

“You certainly won’t be anymore.”

With a huff, she pivots away from me, her back straight as she strides toward the Intramural building. Exhaling a deep, resigned breath, I shuffle my way back to where Cam is waiting for me.

“What the hell was that about?” he asks, raising a skeptical brow.

“Fuck if I know.” I shrug, devoid of the energy to explain myself. “But I’m definitely done with her.”

“That’s probably good.” He hikes his duffel bag up over his shoulder. “She has those wild eyes, you know.” I snort a laugh, giving him a quick dig with my elbow as we continue up the hill. “No, I’m serious. I’ve always thought so. I never understood why you went for her in the first place.”

“She was there,” I admit.

And isn’t that the cold hard truth of it. She was there. Practically threw herself at me a few months ago, not that I have any right to complain about it. In fact, I was all for it at the time. Unfortunately, Cassidy’s attitude got really old, really fast.

“Damn.” He gives me a tight-lipped wince. “Glowing review.”

“What can I say, man? I’ve got too much shit going on to work for it. She made things a little bit easier on me. That’s all.”

“Sure, I get it.” He pats me on the bicep. “But you probably ruined your one shot of ever hooking up with Shannon.”

“Why do you say that?”

“They’re teammates, man.” He gives me a lopsided grin. “You know, there is that whole girl code thing.”

“They’re not really that close.”

“They live together, dude.”

“Yeah, true,” I say with a careless half shrug. “But I heard Shan’s trying to move out at the end of semester—says she’s getting too old for the drama of it all.”

“There you go, man. You can wait until spring term to shoot your shot, then.”

“I don’t know. I’m not really trying to date.”

“Who said anything about dating?”

“I don’t know, Shan’s cool . . . I just don’t know if she’d be down for a fuck-buddy situation.” Because at this point, that’s about the only thing I can manage. Between the team, my slipping grades, maintaining my scholarship, and my chance at the draft, there’s just too much hanging in the air for me right now.

It’s not that I’m against dating in general. But seriously, who has the fucking time for it all?

“Might as well try. She’s smoking hot.”

“Ridiculously hot, man.” I mull it over for another beat. “You know what? Maybe I will give it a shot. If the opportunity presents itself.”

He grins wide and gives me one sharp pat to the back. “Atta boy.”

Yeah, to hell with it. A potential night sharing the sheets with Shannon O’Connor? Only a saint with an iron will could pass up that offer.